


Independence Day

by hanzopanzo (floralstiel)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fourth of July, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, grumpy hanzo, mild PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 00:46:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7384318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floralstiel/pseuds/hanzopanzo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCree shares an American past-time with Hanzo, who doesn't see the appeal, and takes matters into his own hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Independence Day

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written or posted anything publicly in like 2 years please go easy on me :( Not beta'd or really proofread at all, it's almost 2am here lol...but I really wanna get back into writing fanfic so this is my happy start! 
> 
> Happy Independence Day fellow yanks!

“C’mere, pop a squat.”

Hanzo wrinkled his nose in that charmingly distasteful way of his, yet crouched by McCree’s perch, eventually sitting cross-legged at the southerner’s insistence.

“Why are we up here? It is too warm.” Hanzo griped. He wasn’t in his usual combat uniform; he was dressed instead in a lighter summer yukata. It made him softer around the edges, warmer, less imposing, and McCree found he quite liked the change.

“Figured I’d include you in the fun.”

“ _Fun_? What fun is there to be had on a roof?”

If McCree wasn’t already intimately familiar with the man he would’ve mistaken Hanzo’s usual griping as real anger. Instead he merely chuckled and pulled Hanzo closer, until their thighs and hips pressed together in the uncomfortable summer humidity.

“Today’s the fourth! Now I know you ain’t as sheltered as you let on, you gotta know what us rowdy Americans do today.”

“Yes, I know,” Hanzo frowned, not protesting when McCree slung his arm over his broad shoulders, slipping his calloused fingers into the folds of his yukata to brush his collar bone, “but _I_ am not American.”

“Bless your heart but you’re a prickly bastard,” McCree chuffed. “Let me have my fun.”

Hanzo rolled his eyes yet relaxed into McCree’s side. The cowboy produced a couple sweating beers from the chest by his side, and they were well into the third round when the show started. Hanzo flinched, only a little, and McCree would be a bald-faced liar if he said he didn’t too. Hanzo smiled awkwardly and took a liberal chug of beer before relaxing once more, dark eyes fixed on the sky. McCree wanted to say he was paying attention to the sky too, but all he could look at were the explosions of color reflected in Hanzo’s eyes, illuminating the sharp angles of his face before they disappeared in the night.

They sat in an easy silence for the duration of the fireworks, and McCree’s hand had started brushing over Hanzo’s chest, his soft skin damp with a thin sheen of sweat. It was humid, weather report said it’d be 90 but to McCree it felt way over that, maybe it was from the way Hanzo hummed from the treatment, how McCree could feel the reverberations of the sound through his fingertips. The pops and screeches from the show were nearly drowned out by the pounding in his ears when Hanzo turned his way, gave him one of those damned _looks_ of his, the kind McCree had trouble differentiating between lust or hatred.

Before he could blink away the spots from the last volley Hanzo had crawled into his lap.

McCree was always humbled by the sheer power he felt in Hanzo’s thighs, when they flexed around his hips for balance, and he knew if Hanzo wanted to he could probably find a way to crush the cowboy’s pelvis in seconds, or come awful close to it. He was humbled because he didn’t have to be afraid. All that power, all that control, would spill over in seconds and melt to the purest, most unshakeable desire McCree’d ever seen in a man. Hanzo indeed wasn’t sheltered, but McCree had a suspicion that he’d never allowed himself to pursue another man so passionately, to love so freely. He’d be damned if he didn’t encourage Hanzo every step of the way.

“I gotcha, darlin’,” McCree drawled, crumbling voice nearly drowned out by the explosions all around them. The both of them were used to explosions of a different kind, and coming down from that alertness would take some time, would take a _lot_ of time, but they had plenty of it.

McCree’s hands, flesh and metal, felt Hanzo’s every tremble and sigh as they kissed, easy as breathing. Hanzo’s yukata had slipped over his shoulders and pooled around his elbows and waist, an infuriating mass of sweat-damp cloth that bunched and pushed against McCree’s stomach. McCree had forgone his usual get up, what with the heat and all, and the fact they hadn’t faced real combat in some months, and the flimsy tank top he wore rode up on him, damn near see-through from sweat. Hanzo’d tried to coax him into a yukata too, but McCree was stuck in his ways, and promised if Hanzo ever managed to bring him back to Japan McCree would wear one then.

“You smell,” Hanzo spoke, nose stuck somewhere behind McCree’s ear despite his words, “you are utterly _filthy_ , cowboy.”

McCree loved the way Hanzo formed his mouth around the moniker. _Cow_ boy. “You’re not exactly clean yourself, darlin’.”

Hanzo shuddered at the pet name, one of his favorites, McCree reckoned, and pressed in for another bruising kiss, all need and teeth and tongue.

The fireworks had long since stopped, the few remaining beers in the chest were lukewarm in a puddle of melted ice water, and Hanzo might’ve kicked it off the roof if the hollow _thud_ and splash were any indication. McCree didn’t much care, and he couldn’t turn to look anyhow seeing as Hanzo had his hands buried in McCree’s sweaty locks, locking him in place as he practically mauled his lips.

“Disgusting,” Hanzo muttered, fondly, as his fingers slipped through wet strands down to frame McCree’s face. The cowboy grinned and heaved himself to his feet, knocking Hanzo into a ridiculous sprawl across the roof.

“Like I said, you ain’t clean neither.”

Hanzo’s face creased in frustration but accepted McCree’s help in standing. Together they managed to shamble down off the roof without hurting each other, and minutes later they burst through the screen door into the house proper, not stopping as they shed their tacky clothes in the dark.

By the time McCree was done with him Hanzo was a right mess, hair askew like black ink around his shoulders, clinging to his flushed pink face and neck. His chest heaved with his desperate breaths and his generous pecks caught the meager light from the streetlamp outside, McCree had to fight with himself not to dive back in for another taste. The bed was ruined and McCree shakily got to his feet to flick on the ceiling fan and pull the sheets out from under a dead-weight Hanzo, lost to the world in post-coital haze.

McCree hummed ragged and out of tune as he carefully dislodged Hanzo’s prosthetics and placed them by the other man’s side of the bed. Hanzo only moaned softly and rolled to his side once McCree was finished, an open invitation McCree was hard-pressed to decline. They were naked, sweaty, filthy, but McCree hummed happily and pressed up against Hanzo’s back, thighs to chest plastered together.

Hanzo would gripe in the morning, blame McCree entirely, and would probably take all the hot water fixing himself up all pretty again, but McCree didn’t mind. He looked forward to it. He looked forward to any morning with Hanzo. Damn, he sounded sappy as a pine tree. He muffled his grin against Hanzo’s nape and pressed a soft kiss there instead.

“See you in the mornin’, sweetheart.”

“Wake me when it is winter,” Hanzo grumbled in reply, almost too soft to hear, and McCree chuckled, slinging his arm and leg over Hanzo’s body to pull him ever closer.

“Sure thing.”


End file.
